


What Happens Tomorrow

by rosiedoesfic



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Denial, Hiatus, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 08:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiedoesfic/pseuds/rosiedoesfic
Summary: In the weeks that follow the the start of the hiatus, it's hard to fill the space that has opened up.





	What Happens Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyginger/gifts).

> This story was written as a oneshot, as a gift to my dear friend and beta, Heyginger, on her birthday. 
> 
> The title and prompt are taken from the _fanfic bingo_ boards we created together, cell fifteen - _**What happens tomorrow**_.

**What Happens Tomorrow**  
_It's too easy to be scared sometimes..._

The last thing they said to each other, as Joe threw his things into his bag and twisted out of his way to get to the door, like it'd seal itself shut if he didn't get out of there within the space of a furious huff, was, "I can't fucking wait to never have to see you again."

And Patrick had yelled back, "Yeah, thank fucking _God_!" too late, ignoring the misery in the slump of Andy's shoulders while he paused in pulling on his shirt, and the way Pete's head sank back into the couch cushions, eyes vacantly fixed on the ever-spinning fan on the ceiling.

Because he couldn't wait, either, in that fucking moment. He was so, so done with it all; with all the bitterness and the sniping and the running to tell other people how much of a big, mean, bully Patrick was, although Joe could never say it to his face. Like he expected him to have changed without knowing what he'd been doing wrong. It was Joe all over - unreasonable and changeable and moody - and now _it_ was all over, because of Joe.

It was over, and it was liberating. Freeing. He was fucking done and it felt like the last day of school.

But, like school, that sense of freedom faded.

When he dragged his case out of the taxi at the Glenview house and it was empty - stale and cold behind the pile of fall leaves that had swept against the front door - he felt the first little pull on a thread that could only unravel.

All he needed was time to decompress, he was sure. He'd feel better once the holidays started and it began to feel like home again - the piles of pumpkins growing on porch steps and the striped witchy legs sticking out of holes in trees on front yards - he'd feel better when he was with the people he loved, more. He'd feel better, in time.

Because time, he'd been led to believe, was the ultimate healer. Only, now he had an abundance of it. His cup overfloweth-ed with time and he tried to make the most of it, when his mom was at work all day and his siblings had things to do and Pete was a flight away with his happy little family, and who knew what Andy was even doing, these days? He had so many friends he probably wouldn't even have noticed that he hadn't heard from Patrick in days. Or weeks, now, he supposed?

When he saw a pumpkin carved into an uncanny likeness of Lemmy, he found himself snapping a photo to share it with the person he knew would appreciate it the most, opened the email and then… He remembered the contempt in his voice, the spiky irritation of their every interaction for months… So, instead, he typed in Pete's address and sent it, telling himself that he'd meant to send it to him, anyway, even though it wasn't true.

Pete knew it wasn't true, either, and he didn't even afford him the dignity of pretending. The message came back through that night, while he sat in his kitchen over a second glass of the whiskey he'd intended to savour the first time around:

_Wrong email buddy._

"Yeah," he murmured to no one, because he had exactly no one there to say it to, "just another thing I got wrong, huh?"

He didn't type out a reply. He wrote himself out a song - lyrics first, this time, a scramble of words pointing fingers at his own reflection.

On Hallowe'en he filled a bowl with candy, carved a pumpkin in the traditional style he'd been used to as a kid - triangle-nosed and grinning devillishly - and waited for the bell to ring. He watched the neighbourhood kids from his window, smiling nostalgically at the rubber masks and beige jumpsuits and little girls in plastic, pointed hats, skipping along the sidewalk. He watched, and he waited, and he sipped his drink and picked at the fun size chocolate bars as the numbers outside dwindled with the bowl. And then, it was just him.

Maybe he was the Hallowe'en ghost? Standing at his window, wondering why nobody would smile back.

"Sweetie, come over," his mother had said, three weeks later - or maybe it was four? "I'll bake your favourite, okay?"

He'd gone, because he'd been summoned and he always did what she asked, even now, and because it was something to do; someone to chat to and to get him out of the house. But he also knew how the conversation would go - it was well-rehearsed, and it was exhausting - questions about how he was feeling, what he was doing (who was he seeing, what was he eating?), and the answer to all of the questions was the same resounding _Nothing_.

And he knew it'd pass, he knew he'd be fine, but the light at the end of the tunnel seemed a long way away and it wasn't getting any closer; the darkness just got closer around him, suffocating like a velvet curtain wrapped tight, and he wasn't sure what was there in the dark beside him.

He stopped in the grocery store, on the way home; he was going to need something to wash down her baking and rinse out the sound of her endless questions. It wasn't an issue, it just helped make the house feel less empty; made him feel a little less empty, too. The only reason he was carrying it cradled to his chest was that the Chicago winter was beginning to bite. He wasn't embarrassed to be seen with it, and the cold and having his hands full was the reason he had to stoop to pick up his keys, too, standing on the sidewalk beside his car.

When he straightened, trying to find the unlock button through the little pall of his fogging breath, he froze - not from the November chill but like a rabbit trapped in headlights - and at first he wasn't sure why, but he knew in the pit of his stomach before he lifted up his gaze any further. He almost turned away, pretending he hadn't seen the figure bundled up in his oversized scarf with his hair knotted loosely and ruffled curls escaping over the arms of his glasses, the faded jeans sagging at the knees like they always did. He almost turned, but he didn't have time, because he accidentally met the blue eyes blinking slowly behind the fogged-up lenses and there was no turning back, then. No turning anywhere.

Joe's keys jangled in his hand as he pulled down the wool wound around his mouth.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, offering a small, upwards nod as his tongue tripped over the double sibilants, and the words jabbed at Patrick's throat.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he replied, and it was so quiet he wondered if it was even audible, and that left him with the awkward, guilty sense that he might seem rude. He felt the lurch of anxiety building in his chest and cleared his throat to say it again, force it out a little more clearly, so that at least he could say they'd been amicable when they spoke. Even if only to himself.

But before he could draw the breath to form the words, Joe tilted his head and asked, "Having a party?"

"What?" He looked down at the paper bag tucked in the crook of his arm and tried not to look ashamed because he was an adult and he was allowed this. "Oh. Oh, I… no. Not really. You?" he added dumbly, cringing inwardly because Joe was holding a shopping bag with toilet paper clearly visible between its handles and evidently little else. 

But Joe's face quirked into a bemused smirk and he glanced down at his purchase. "My parents got a new puppy; new puppy has a thing for TP, apparently."

He did his best to chuckle affably, because that was what he'd do, right? He'd be affable, act like he'd bumped into a neighbour at Target, and all he really knew to do, right now, was to play a version of himself. It felt stupid, though, standing on the street pretending he didn't want to open his bottle there and then, but he didn't know how to escape this situation.

"Thanks, by the way," Joe said, suddenly, as if it had abruptly come to mind. "For the picture - it was funny. Good likeness, but the hat made it."

Patrick frowned and opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Joe carried on as though he'd asked the thought aloud.

"Pete," he said. "Told me you put in the wrong address or something, so he gave it an old forwardaroo."

"I didn't… I sent it to Pete because…" Because he'd had no one else to send it to, was the truth of it. Because it had only been weeks and the only thing he'd found to fill the gap in his life didn't text him back. "I should go…"

He did turn, then, fumbling with the lock button before hitting the unlock and yanking open the door. He didn't look back, even though he could see Joe starting to walk over to the car as he pulled at his seatbelt.

The house was as empty as he'd left it. Darker and colder, but just as empty. He kicked off his shoes and felt his way to the kitchen, slapping on the switch to the arrangement over the island and heaving himself on to the nearest stool. The clock on the wall beside the door ticked heavily in the quiet. He hadn't been ready for it, the unexpected meeting. The last thing Joe had said to him, before tonight, was spiteful joy at ending all contact - and yet there he'd been, wishing him a happy Thanksgiving like it was nothing. 

About a glass and two thirds had passed when it came, the light rap of knuckles on wood at the end of the hall. He didn't move, but his stomach dropped and his breath hitched. Maybe he'd imagined it. It was late, it wasn't his first drink of the day, perhaps he should go to bed and forget it all - just finish his glass and go…

The air outside was biting when he finally yanked open the door, realising that the knocking wouldn't stop until he did.

But even with the door open, neither of them said anything, Joe just looked at him in the glow of the porchlight and shivered like a little match girl, gloved hands tucked under his arms. Joe had never liked the cold. They jerked his chain over it all the time, when the band was together - bought him scarves with dumb slogans on them or phallic handwarmer gels, or on one occasion a penis mitten he insisted on wearing as a tiny hat… It'd made Patrick laugh until he cried.

And he couldn't leave him standing there, on the porch, so he sighed and wandered away to let him in. He was going to need at least another glass for himself and it would seem rude not to offer Joe anything.

Without asking, he picked up a tumbler and slopped some of his Glenfiddich into it, topping up his own for good measure. 

"One of those for me, or you gonna double fist it?" 

He nodded, focused on his glass, and waved a hand in the direction of the spare stool. He didn't want Joe towering over him in judgement, right now. He felt insignificant enough. 

"I thought," he began, meaning it in equal parts sincerely and pettily, "I thought you couldn't wait to never see me again?" 

Joe nodded slowly, barely having to tilt his hip to perch on the seat beside him, and drawing the glass across the counter carefully. "I couldn't. Not, like… not right then, anyway." 

"Then, why the fuck are you here?" It was a serious question lubricated by the scotch so that it slid out like a challenge. 

To his credit, and for all his deeply ingrained, bitchy sullenness, Joe didn't rise to it. He just seemed to think for an endless moment, twisting the squat, modernist glass on the countertop. 

"I didn't, like… I didn't want to leave. Outside the store, I mean. And I didn't want you to leave. But then you were just kind of gone, so…" He took a sip of his drink and hesitated. The string of four irregular pendants swung a little in the breeze from the vents and it cast shadows on the walls and ceilings in the golden glow from the Eddison bulbs. The effect was unbalanced, wavering uncertainty casting back and forth across Joe's face when Patrick dared to look at him. "It felt like the first time we met, actually. I didn't wanna leave, then, either."

Patrick snorted a cynical laugh into his glass, although he wasn't really drinking from it, he was using it to shield his face, so that even if he was looking, Joe wouldn't be able to judge his expression. 

"You know how much it hurts when you do that?"

The tightness of it surprised him. He lowered his glass, feeling a lump in his throat as though a piece of ice had slipped out of his drink.

"It's like, it wasn't bad enough that you just couldn't see me like your musical equal, but you couldn't even…" Joe cut himself off with a long, reedy exhale and shook his head. 

"I didn't mean to - I never meant to hurt you, I just…" This argument, too, was familiar. They'd never talked about it until the damage was done, and then no end of apologies were enough; no amount of reasoning could work it out. "You're a good musician - a _great_ musician - and I -"

"Lame thing is, I don't even care about that anymore, Patrick. I don't fucking care what you think of my guitar playing skills or the riffs I used to send you, anymore. I don't care."

Joe's glass skidded a little on the counter as he pushed it away and they sat in silence, heavy and sad, both knowing that it wasn't true. Of course he cared. It had sat, wedge-shaped, between them for years, now.

"It's not about the music. Not for me, and not for you, dude. _Look at you_." Joe's fingers reached out and tugged the security blanket from Patrick's hand, so he couldn't hide behind it anymore. "You can't sit there, _doing this_, and tell me you don't know. That you can't just like, _believe_ what we both know has been going on here. You can't fucking do this anymore."

He wanted to plead ignorance, but he couldn't find the words. Wanted to keep on denying the problem that they both knew had been the elephant in the room for as long as they could remember, but he didn't have the strength left. The elephant had kept on growing the longer he ignored it, until it had pushed everything else out.

"You need to say it, eventually. You need to fucking get it out, because we all already know, okay, and it's fucking shitty to have to watch you pretending like it's all alright. Because we both know it's not, Ric. Everybody knows it's not."

"Don't say that - don't say 'everybody knows' -"

"But they _do_," Joe insisted, and his voice was gentle again, now, all soothing and warm like a hot toddy on a cold, lonely night. "Just because we didn't talk about it doesn't mean it hasn't been a fucking problem this whole time."

His hand reached out across the polished granite, and Patrick became aware for the first time that Joe had removed his gloves; his fingers, pale and tattooed appeared to be shaking in the faint drift of the light above them. They tucked lightly through the loop of his hand and held on, filling the space where his glass had been.

"You've gotta deal with this."

"_I_ do?" he said, for the first time in weeks hearing indignance in his own voice, above the weariness.

"It's never been a problem for me, Ric. It's always been you… you know it has."

In the low, warm glow of the kitchen, Patrick watched the fingers in his own grow tighter; he swallowed and gathered the dignity to look up at the careful blue eyes watching him, feeling the warmth rising in his face and in his throat, fighting the urge to confess but wanting so much for something to change.

"Ric."

He nodded his admission, uncomfortable and jerky with resistance to the words he knew he was supposed to say. And he knew Joe wasn't going to let him get out of it this time, or hear anything less. But he'd woven around the elephant for so long, politely ignored its presence, that he wasn't sure how to finally name it.

He swallowed and rubbed at his nose absently with the heel of his free palm, giving a small hitch of a laugh as Joe nudged his seat close and tucked an arm around his shoulders, still smoothing at his hand with his thumb. He could feel the warmth of Joe's breath at his temple, a sensation he'd both known and imagined so many times over the years, but always been too afraid to seek out. He'd been afraid to accept how much he'd craved it, embarrassed to ask it of a friend, admit how it made him feel. So, he'd pushed and pushed until it didn't happen anymore, because they couldn't even bear to see each other.

And that had been the problem: music was _his_ outlet - he'd needed every bit of it because he was keeping everything else in - he couldn't let Joe have it. After all those years of wishing and pushing, he'd used the one thing they had together against them both, until Joe had been out of reach.

But sitting at his breakfast bar, in the house he'd hollowed out, he finally murmured, "I'm sorry." And, "I love you." And "I'm sorry," again.

And in the darkness of the bedroom, still clad in shirts and shorts and socks against the cold, he'd let Joe curl around him for the first time since they were kids - when it was still kind of funny to play out while they could pretend it didn't mean any more than games; when they didn't have to wonder 'What happens tomorrow?'

He didn't know what would happen tomorrow, as Joe's breath slowed on the back of his neck and the arm around his chest grew looser, but for the first time in a long time, he knew what wouldn't. Because the drowsy whisper against his cheek had said, "I can't wait to wake up with you, tomorrow."


End file.
